The Terror of Muffin's Honor
by JonWilhoit
Summary: A local resident tells the tale of what the townsfolk of their tiny hamlet know as "The Terror of Muffin's Honor."


Background/Description

About a decade ago, the townsfolk of Muffin's Honor found themselves at the heart of haintin' like none had seen ever before. For weeks the folk reported hearing strange noises in the streets at night, trash cans overturned and rooted through like a hog hunting up an acorn, corn cribs ransacked, and even a few chickens missing from their hen houses. At first they thought it might have been a wolf or a pack of stray dogs, but then Mrs. Holksworth—the miller's widow—woke up one night to an unholy racket what was coming from her kitchen. Thinking that it was a 'coon or 'possum that found its way through an open window, the widow grabbed her broom and went to roust the varmit out of her house. But what she found, gods bless her, nearly gave her a stroke!

She found it rummaging about her pantry, wolfing down every edible morsel it could find. It was small in stature, barely two feet high with a wild, disheveled mane and limbs so thin you could thread a needle with 'em. It was dark of course and the widow didn't get so good a look at the creature, but she swore up and down that it had a mouth full of fangs, sharp as swords and strong as iron. As soon as she started to squalling and carrying on, the little monster lit up out of there quick as you please. He jumped out the window and scampered across the yard in the space of a couple heartbeats and was gone.

Now when the widow told her story the next day, most of the folks in town was a bit leery. Everyone knew that the Widow Holksworth was scared of her own shadow, and ever since Mr. Holksworth passed, well she'd been a bit touched in the head anyway. But folks started believing when the same thing happened to two more people. And in each case, they said the little beasty—a goblin most of them said—had runnoft into the forest. So a bunch of the men folk decided they was gonna nip it right in the bud. They got a hunting party together and started beating the bush, hunting up the little bugger so as to rid the town of him for good.

They used dogs of course, which—as they're like to do—soon found a scent and went chargin' off into the woods. The chase was long, and that little thing like to of led them halfway to the next shire a'fore they caught up to him. When the dogs started a'bayin' and a'howlin', they knew they'd got the little beast cornered. Soon as they got there, they saw that sure as shootin', the little bugger'd been treed. But as they sat there, peering up at it high up in the limbs of a big 'ole oak, it dawned on them. Weren't no goblin or beasty they was looking at, but a Halfling babe!

Well, babe ain't really the right word. He looked to be no older than 10, but later they reckoned that he was more like thirteen or so. He was just so small! He was unkempt, disheveled—evidently he only got a bath when he got caught in a good rainstorm. And that sure was a while ago, 'cos he stank to high heaven. They coaxed him off the tree with some bread and cheese and the grabbed him, trussed him up—and not without difficulty I might add, for the kit was stronger than he looked—and took him back to the village to try to figger out just what to do with him. Couldn't no one figger out where he'd come from—least of all him. The poor thing couldn't utter a word of proper speech, so there was no talking to him He just grunted and howled like a common animal. They finally decided he musta been living in them woods as long as he could remember and had just recently wandered into the area around Muffin's Honor. Only reason he stayed was probably 'cos of the easy access to food 'round the town. After the townsfolk had convened, it was decided that the boy would be given a chance at a decent life. The old school master—one Thaddeus Anklessen—volunteered to take him on and give him a proper education. Gods bless him, but he didn't have a clue what he was getting himself into.

The process was a long one, and old Thaddeus just about pulled all his hair out during it. The child—who Thaddeus named Ichabod, since he had no proper name before then—was a hellion. Thaddeus taught him to live indoors, to eat at the table with proper silverware and dishes, and to dress in right clothes. But none of it took real well. As soon as Thaddeus wasn't lookin', the boy would tear off his shirt and shoes, go runnin' across the street a hoopin' and a hollerin', he'd burry his face in whatever meal he was eatin', he'd run off a'climbin' trees and wallering in the mud and wrestling with the dogs, and all sorts of other behavior that weren't fittin' for a civilized child. 'Bout the only thing he did pick up worth a darn was speaking. He learned to do that tolerable well, but reading he never did take to. Said the words made him dizzy and would go into rages every time Thaddeus tried to teach him his letters and cipherin'.

Ichabod was round about sixteen when old Thaddeus up and died. Some folks say the heart attack what kilt him was brought on from dealing with that wild child Ichabod. They might be right, for three years before Thaddeus had him a full head of hair, and now what wasn't gone was stone gray. But despite all the torment he put him through, little Ichabod seemed genuinely sorry for the loss of his adopted pa. For the funeral he dressed all nice and purty in his best suit, spoke a few halting words of thanks and praise, and then as soon as the service was over there lit out of there like his feet were on fire and his butt was a'catchin', a trail of clothes littering the ground behind him.

After that he pretty much lived in the woods, coming into town now and then to raise hell and get into mischief. But he never did sneak into anyone's house or cause any real harm. Every just sort of tolerated his presence from then on out, giving him scraps and help every now and then when he seemed to need it. In that way, he was sort of the neighborhood dog—nobody wanted to lay claim to him exactly, but everyone felt sorry for him enough to put out a bowl of food every once in a while. At one point he started toting this woodsman's axe around—built for a normal person, mind you, so it was almost too big for him to use himself. Farmer Grady knew the man he'd stole it from, but they wasn't about to press charges or nothing against him. The woodcutter said Ichabod probably needed it more than him, and he was due to get a new axe anyway. So everyone just kinda let it be, and Ichabod was happy with his new toy.

It's been about two years since Thaddeus died, and we still see Ichabod every now and again. He comes into town with some furs or whatnot, sells them, then spends all his money at the tavern and gets rip roarin' drunk for a few days. A couple pies get stolen from window ledges, a woodpile gets knocked over, and maybe a hog pen gets left open and there's a stampede of pigs down main street one night, but eventually he disappears again and makes off into the woods back where he come from. No one knows what he does out there, but he survives. He's still as scrawny as ever, and most of his baths come from swimming in the horse troughs, but he makes his living somehow. And despite what most folks say about the nuisance that is Ichabod, we've all got a special place in our hearts for the terror of Muffin's Honor… even if we are tempted to wring his scrawny little neck half the time. But hell, it's the thought that counts ain't it?"

Contacts

**Wert** – Wert is the kitchen boy for the local tavern. He is a gangly youth of about sixteen, pimply faced with greasy red hair and bad fingernail biting habit. Most of the other youths in town give him a very hard time, but he and Ichabod somehow came to be friends. Wert often times will save scraps from the kitchen (they're supposed to go to the hogs most of the time) and give them to Ichabod instead.

**Widow Holksworth** – The widow (or as Ichabod says, 'widder') was the one who first reported seeing Ichabod in the flesh all those years ago, and in her cracked mind she's taken it upon herself to try and mentor to the boy a bit and give him some proper raising. Most of the townsfolk have long since given up on him, but Widow Holksworth is dogged in her attempts to civilize him. She seems to constantly be making gifts of new clothes, utensils, and other trappings of the civilized life to young Ichabod—wasting her husband's legacy, the townsfolk say. It's all for naught, as the Halfling immediately either pawns the items or throws them away. For some reason, though, he tolerates most of the widow's attentions, even submitting to a bath and combing of his hair from time to time—though, admittedly, that is only once in a blue moon. Or whenever she manages to catch him sleeping!

**Theo Colby** – Colby is the owner of one of the local general stores. Ichabod sells whatever he can to Colby—furs, wild mushrooms, fish, whatever new item wider Holksworth has impressed upon him recently. Outwardly Colby is nice to the young Halfling, but as Ichabod hasn't truly grasped the value of certain goods and commodities (and in truth he isn't that smart anyways), Colby ends up cheating him quite a large bit of the time. Colby is a rotund man with a balding head (and bad comb-over) and a pair of pince-nez glasses he wears over beady black eyes. Most of the townsfolk don't have a high opinion of him, but he's the only one will tolerate Ichabod's stink long enough to let him into his store.


End file.
